


I Was Told There'd Be Cake

by nonnymouse



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bickering, Fuck Or Die, Hockey Gods, Inexperienced Top, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 16:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14596884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonnymouse/pseuds/nonnymouse
Summary: "You have been called. You will worship your gods, or be sacrificed to them."Bitty and Kent must fuck or die. One of them wants to fuck, the other would prefer to die. They're not entirely clear which of them is arguing for which.





	I Was Told There'd Be Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this kinkmeme prompt:
> 
> 'Bitty/Parse, bickering fuck or die
> 
> Bitty and Parse get fuck'or'died. Only, they can't agree on which to choose. (Inspired by this thread at FFA: https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/309987.html?thread=1767259875#cmt1767259875 )"
> 
> https://omgkinkplease.dreamwidth.org/586.html?thread=250698#cmt250698
> 
> Title from Sloane Crosley.

Whatever he expected when he woke up, it wasn't Wayne Gretzky looming over him. Not even the Gretzky of today, but Gretzky in his prime, with bright blue eyes and sick flow. "What?" Kent asked the universe, pressing a hand to his aching head.

"You have been called, Kent Parson," Gretzky said. "You and Eric Bittle will worship your gods."

Bittle? What did Zimms' boyfriend have to do with anything?

"I think I had too much tub juice," said a faint voice beside Kent. He looked over and there was Bittle, clutching his own head. "I'm hallucinating."

"Do you see Wayne Gretzky?" Kent asked.

"Yeah."

"Not hallucinating, then."

"Says the other hallucination."

The Gretzky apparition struck the floor with his hockey stick, making the whole chamber they were in shake. Now that Kent's attention was drawn to it, he noticed that there was a design in the center of the floor, like a locker room. But his eyes returned to Gretzky's face when he spoke. "You have been called. You will worship your gods, or be sacrificed to them."

Kent exchanged a look with Bittle, who looked equally plagued by a headache and confusion. Kent spoke. "I don't think either of us get what you mean, bro."

"I am not your bro," he said, snapping the visor of his helmet down. It was mirrored, reflecting Kent's nervous face back at himself. "The two of you were chosen for your beauty and talent, and now you will fuck or die."

Within the space of a blink, he disappeared.

"Fuck this shit," Kent said, standing up and going to the edge of the chamber. He felt along the cool stone walls, trying to find any sort of door. He kept having to pull his hands away, the cold almost too sharp.

"Maybe if we just—" Bittle hesitated. "They'll let us go?"

Kent whirled on him. Bittle still sat on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms tight around them. The sight of scared Bittle making himself even smaller was one of the least sexy things Kent had ever seen. Even if Bittle agreed to it, it would feel like rape to Kent. "Absolutely not. I am not fucking you."

That at least brought back Bittle's usual pissy look, which was better than the fear. He pushed himself to his feet and got up in Kent's face. Or he tried, being a few inches too short to reach Kent's face. "Listen up, Kent Parson, I have no intention of dying. If I have to fuck you, at least I'll survive the sacrifice."

"The sacrifice?" Kent repeated incredulously. "You make it sound like fucking me is almost a fate worse than death."

"I'd rather fuck Carly," Bittle said, which was not cool. Bittle knew what Carly had said about Jack to the press, that he didn't deserve to be on the ice.

"You'd be lucky to fuck me. I'd blow your cute little housewife world wide open."

Bittle scoffed and backed off. "Ugh, no, I have too much self-respect for this. You just keep futilely scrabbling at the walls and ruining your nails while I contemplate my impending death."

"Seriously? You'd really rather die than let me show you a good time?" Kent knew he needed to fight dirty. He pulled off his shirt. As expected, Bittle's eyes went right to his abs. He didn't spend all that time on his obliques for nothing.

It was with obvious effort that Bittle rolled his eyes, given they went right back to that trail of golden hair leading down into Kent's pants. "Oh, I'm Kent Parson, and I can take my shirt off. So can everyone else!" Angrily he ripped off the striped tank he'd been wearing, mussing his perfectly gelled hair in the process. He did look cute when flushed and disheveled and puffed up with bravado. Too bad about the personality.

"I don't even want to fuck you, so what are you trying to prove?" Kent said, purposefully goading him. He got the frustrated growl he was looking for.

"Would you stop saying that? Who says you're going to be fucking me? You think I'm gonna roll over for you?"

Surprised by the attack, Kent stammered out something about obviously, it was just, before settling on, "Look, you and Jack, we all know who's taking it up the ass."

Bitty shoved a finger in his chest. "You know nothing. Now take your pants off."

"You!" And like he was still in high school, he reached out and twisted Bittle's nipple as if that would make him compliant. When Bittle moaned and arched into the vicious twist, Kent realized he'd been unexpectedly successful.

Bittle's eyes fluttered open, darker than before. "Pants off, Parson," he said, his voice gone throatier.

Shocked by the reality of Bittle being sexual, Kent actually obeyed.

"How do you want—" Bittle started to ask, before being interrupted by the voice of Gretzky, cut through with the sounds of blades on ice.

"Hands and knees. You are worshipping." He held out a small bowl to Bittle, who took it and nearly dropped it when the apparition disappeared again.

They exchanged looks, the charge between them lost. The fear was returning.

"You heard the man," Bittle said, visibly gulping.

Numbly, Kent sank to the floor, bowing down and tucking his head between his arms. The floor was stone too, harsh on his knees.

"I think this is oil," Bittle said behind him. Kent jumped when Bittle fucking poured half the bowl over his ass.

"What the fuck, Bittle?"

"I don't know! It's in a bowl! I couldn't squirt it out."

"You could just dip your fingers in it?"

"I wanted to be sure there was enough!"

"Have you even done this before?"

The silence was deafening. "No?" Bittle finally said. "I've, y'know, seen it done. I know how it is supposed to go."

"You fucking twink, you should be the one on your knees for not-Wayne Gretzky."

The sudden smack to his ass felt strange through the thick layer of oil, which splattered, little droplets cascading on his back. "Who are you calling a twink? You look like a Disney prince, which is absolutely twink territory. Don't tell me you haven't done this before."

Kent pressed his lips together.

"That's right. Besides, I'm on my knees, too.  Which brings up the point—can you lower your ass a little?"

Kent made sure to sigh in his most put-upon manner as he sank down a little. Bittle's hands on his ass stopped him when the height was good. He wondered if Bittle even realized he was kneading Kent's ass, or if it was a nervous stress thing.

"You ready?" Bittle asked, a little of the huskiness back in his voice.

"Yeah. Yeah," he said, nodding into his arms a little. Wouldn't get any readier.

Or so he thought until Bittle straight-up rammed his dick in. "Shit, Bittle, fuck!"

"Sorry, sorry!" Bittle's hand frantically patted his hip. "This stuff is crazy slippery, I wasn't expecting ... there's usually more pushing, right?"

Kent did not want to hear about Bittle's tight hole. "Not if you just shove it in there, no. And especially not with magic lube or whatever the fuck this stuff is. Just be careful, okay?"

"Okay," Bittle replied, a bit sullen. Confirmed when he rocked his hips hard.

But their little talk had given Kent time to adjust, and it wasn't bad. "That's right, Bittle. Show me you know how to fuck. Remember, you wanted this."

With his next thrust, Bittle curved over Kent's body, his chest warm against Kent's back. "You wanted it, too," he said. "Took your pants right off when I told you to." He thrust another time, long and leisurely. "How long has it been, Kent, that you were gagging for it that much?"

Kent had been on this side of it before, and knew the tricks. He rocked back against Bittle, tightened around his cock, and smirked to himself at the gasp he'd drawn out. "Whenever I want. Like a Disney prince, you said? I snap my fingers and the guys come running." He lingered over the way he said guys. "What about you? You didn't hold out very long. Jack gotten any better since high school?"

"He's fantastic," Bitty snapped. "Why, you want me to fuck you like he fucks me?"

Freezing for a moment, Kent came back to his body with the next thrust, his knees sliding slightly on the stone. "No," he said. "Show me what you can do, Bittle. After all, this is your one chance before you go back to baking pies, putting on your heels to vacuum, and then laying back and getting fucked."

"You wish you could see my ass in heels," Bittle said, starting to reach a steadier rhythm with his hips. He'd found the right motion to hit Kent's prostate every time, and it felt annoyingly good. Bittle had an unfair advantage for his first time topping, knowing just what felt best when you were on the bottom. "Especially if I'm wearing my cherry-print apron."

Fuck if Kent couldn't imagine it, Bittle bent over the stove, round ass looking even rounder and fuller with the help of the heels, sweet little apron not actually hiding any of his tight little body. Kent could flick the burner off, slide him down to the counter and take him there, wobbling in his heels as Kent pounded into him, needing Kent to hold his helpless body in place.

"Who says I won't?"

Bittle pressed a hand into Kent's back to push himself back up, and Kent relished the moment of casual confidence. "You are infuriating, Kent Parson," Bittle said, rededicating himself to the task of shutting Kent up. If Kent were honest, he did a damn good job. He even stroked Kent off with a slick hand, holding some come-covered fingers up for Kent to lick while he reached his own orgasm, taking his time with Kent's limp, boneless body. The gorgeous drag of his cock made Kent's own spent one twitch. If Bittle had taken much longer, he might've been up for a second orgasm.

As it was, they collapsed in a tangle of sweaty limbs, staring up at the endless black above them.

They clutched each other's hands when a figure skated out of the darkness. This time it was not Wayne Gretzky, but Bad Bob Zimmermann.

"Mr. Zimmermann?" Kent asked, confused.

"Shh, boy," he said, as fatherly as ever. "You two did good."

When Kent woke up, he expected to be free of whatever insane fever dream he had. Instead, he woke naked in bed, a spill of come trailing down his thighs.

A hockey puck sat on his dresser. When he picked it up, it disappeared with a sharp tingle that trailed from Kent's fingers to somewhere below his navel. _Blessings on our chosen_ , he swore he heard.

He took an extra long hot shower, which was beautiful, until he noticed the crossed hockey sticks tattooed between the dimples of his back.

Maybe he should've chosen death.


End file.
